“Ma’am, can you please pass me?”
I muttered these words sheepishly under my breath while my senior high English teacher looked at me with a contorted face.
After these words left my mouth with a lack of confidence, there was a long moment of silence fit for a memorial.
While looking down at her desk — apparently trying to avoid making eye contact — she began shuffling some papers around, placing them neatly on the right-hand corner of her desk.
My hands began to sweat and my heart race. “If I don’t pass, then I have to go to summer school. If I have to go to summer school, then I can’t play football in the summer at college,” was the line of reasoning racing through my head.
As each second passed by if felt like an hour. I was beginning to lose all hope.
But then, against all hope, I was pardoned as a free man, set free from my failing grade — though I was guilty of not applying myself.